The Real Aouda
by JAshipNOW
Summary: Where did Verne come up with the idea for 80 days? Why isn’t Rebecca in it? Was there an Aouda, and did they really marry? Why not just take the Aurora?


TITLE: The Real Aouda, or Around the World in 83 Days  
  
SUMMARY: Where did Verne come up with the idea for 80 days? Why isn't Rebecca in it? Was there an Aouda, and did they really marry? Why not just take the Aurora?  
  
DISCLAIMERS: The usual. I don't own 'em, I just love playing with 'em. Cootchie, cootchie!  
  
RATING: PG, very little innuendo, violence  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: You really must read Around the World in 80 Days to get this. And if you're an SAJV fan, you have or planned to anyway, so now is the time!  
  
THANKS: To Lona for excellent suggestions and beta reading. Any leftover mistakes are because I didn't take all her advice.  
  
  
From the Diary of Jules Verne  
  
December 24, 1863  
  
We have just arrived back home. I rushed up to my room to write this. Oh, how I wish I had been in possession of you, my journal, lo these past 83 days. So many places, so many sights, so many amazing happenings, and all I have are a bunch of scraps of envelopes and train stationary covered with nearly indecipherable scribblings. I must attempt to get it all down whilst it is fresh in my mind.  
  
It began October 2. I had come up to London to spend a few days at No. 7 Saville Row, having had a letter from Passepartout about the sabotage of the Aurora. That beautiful dirigible was hurt most dreadfully; she will not be air worthy for weeks to come. The League has surely caught Fogg's ire this time.  
  
Though you would not know it to look at him. He is outwardly so calm and exacting. Passepartout was telling me of the schedule Fogg had drawn up for his days of being land-bound: the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the shaving-water at thirty-seven minutes past nine, the toilet at twenty minutes before ten. And it went on. We were laughing about it in the foyer, when Fogg, who, according to his schedule, was not expected back from the club for hours, burst in through the door.  
  
"Passepartout!" he was saying even before the door had fully opened. The valet had no time to reply. "We start for Dover and Calais in ten minutes. You've the carpet-bag?"  
  
"Yes, Master, but-"  
  
"Good," said Fogg. "The train leaves for Dover at a quarter before nine. We shall take it."  
  
And with that he repaired up the stairs to his room, presumably to pack. Passepartout and I exchanged queer looks, and then he hurried I know not where and returned with a carpet-bag. He informed me, to my great surprise, that it contained twenty-thousand pounds, and that Fogg carried it always with him, in case of emergency.  
  
I'm afraid I was still standing uselessly in the foyer when Fogg descended the stairs, having changed into a new shirt collar and a somewhat stouter pair of shoes. He went to the door, only then turning to look at us.  
  
"Come along, Passepartout. Verne, are you coming, or shall you still be standing here slack-jawed when we return?"  
  
"Fogg, just what is going on?" I finally managed to say. In reply he handed me a scrap of paper, donned his hat, and left.  
  
The paper was a telegram, from Bombay, of all places. It read, in whole, Help, R.  
  
It took my mind only seconds to construct Rebecca's name from that one enigmatic letter, and I was out the door behind the gentleman, grabbing my coat from the stand. Passepartout, who was hailing a cab in the street, came back to lock up, and we were off.  
  
Fogg filled us in on the way to the station. What little he could, at least. His cousin Rebecca had been on assignment in ****, tracking a man suspected of white slavery. How she may have come to Bombay, he knew not, and did not care. I believe we were all in complete agreement that haste was necessary.  
  
And haste we made, by train and ship, all of which I noted ran precisely with the tables in Bradshaw's Continental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide, which Fogg continuously perused. This is to be expected in the civilized countries, which we were about to leave.  
  
In spite of the punctuality of our conveyances, it took a week to reach Suez, and from there another eleven to Bombay. Accompanying Passepartout on our shopping, I took in what sights I could along the way, and I have sketched many. The finishing of said sketches shall have to wait until this narrative is completed. You may guess how my impatience galled me, and I had a like-minded companion in Passepartout. But Fogg - his steely countenance seemed to have hardened permanently. He passed the time either referring to his timetables or staring out the nearest window without really seeing anything. Except when he was invited to whist with some ladies; then he could be his charming other self for a time.  
  
But I should concentrate on the important matters. Bombay. We reached it on the 20th of October, and how our days in transit had weighed on me! We should come to Rebecca's rescue at last!  
  
Alas, we had no information on which to start our search. Fogg decreed that we should split up and cover the city from end to end, if necessary, setting us a meeting time and place: a distinctive pagoda on a hill, which lay near the center of town. When I declared my confidence that we should easily find her, a red-head in a sea of black, he gave me such a stare that I thought his eyes might shoot bullets. Rebecca would be disguised, as any idiot would know, he told me. Though I thought I should know her form were she wrapped in a Persian carpet, I have studied it so well.  
  
But I digress. We went each our separate ways, none having more luck than the rest for many hours, as we disclosed at our first meeting. Heading out again, I and Passepartout again found nothing, and both returned for our second meeting with sagging spirits, when who did we see running toward us but Fogg! One of his hands urged forward a scantily-clad Indian girl, the other a black-shrouded figure who was revealed to me the moment she lifted her eyes to mine. "Rebecca!" Fogg had found her! Or rather, they had found him, as I shall soon reveal.  
  
Our celebration was forced to wait, however, as several figures I spotted in pursuit of our comrades. I rushed to take Rebecca from Fogg, leaving him the native girl, and helped her as we sped away. However can Muslim women run, or even see, in such things?  
  
As we were on the steps of the pagoda, and a milling about of people promised to slow our pursuers, we plunged inside.  
  
It was dark, at least compared to the outside. I hesitated at the door, unsure how to proceed, until I saw that the native girl had turned the tables on Fogg and was now leading him by the arm. She led us around a large statue and past many other artifacts I wish now I had had more time to inspect, and through a curtained doorway. I held high hopes that we had eluded our pursuers, when just beyond the curtain I found myself stumbling up against Passepartout, who was doing all he could not to bowl over Fogg and the girl, who had stopped still. I had not the best view, but there soon followed a flurry of kicks and flashing arms, from both Fogg and the girl, followed by grunts, and the way was clear. As we hurried past, I counted six prostrate bodies in orange robes. Rebecca, unable to fight in that ridiculous shroud, satisfied herself by kicking the fallen priests (for by their robes, priests they were) into place to form a barrier to our pursuers before we followed after the others.  
  
Outside we soon found ourselves, ducking successively into several buildings. At last we stumbled into the train station. As luck would have it (or perhaps Fogg's timetables) a train was just leaving, and we were swinging on board before I could think how impossible it might be. Fogg assuaged the ticker-taker with liberal doses of what Passepartout's carpet-bag still held, and we took some seats. I saw as we pulled away that our pursuers did not catch our train. That we were heading east, away from home, concerned me not at all. "The world is round," I assured everyone. "We'll get home."  
  
Rebecca had soon removed her shroud, revealing a somewhat dated but passable frock. The shroud she passed it to the native girl, whom she called Aouda, to cover herself. As they spoke I realized the girl was not native, or at least not raised in her homeland. She spoke the Queen's English with only the slightest patois. It was only later, when we three walked the train from a tiredness of sitting, that I learned her story, and the story of Rebecca's rescue.  
  
Aouda Parihar is her full name, a Parsee, as she hastens to point out. Her Majesty's Secret Service is blessed with her services as it is with Rebecca's. She was raised English, you see, her family emigrees. Her obvious ability to blend in in India has led her to her current assignment, which she was vague about, but which is at an end since our flight.  
  
Rebecca had stowed away on a ship suspected of carrying white slaves. Having proven her suspicions, she was unable to steal away in other ports, only narrowly succeeding in escaping the hold before being sold herself. By Bombay, the holds were empty and the crew unguarded, and she made port. Rebecca's sudden appearance in Bombay was surprising to Aouda, who was there on an unrelated mission of her own. She went immediately to her colleague's aid, hiding Rebecca in the house of her target until Fogg could be found. For Fogg, Rebecca assured her, would come after the telegram.  
  
In anticipation, Aouda had assumed the guise of a dancing girl, a sight I understand is not uncommon in those streets. Alas for London's mores. After many days, she spotted Fogg, but unsure of his identity, she lured him to her rooms for Rebecca to see, with what promises I can only guess. And envy. The ladies laughed much over the look on Fogg's face when he entered the room. I should have liked to observe it.  
  
Fogg and Rebecca (in her disguise which, while hiding her completely, precluded her from arranging transportation; I do not envy women their clothing or their station) they thanked Aouda and quitted her rooms for our meeting, but she soon caught up to them to warn them of pursuit. Be they League or slavers, the Foggs are never at a loss for enemies. Thus we found them, and headed east, as I have related.  
  
It was a pleasant enough trip, while it lasted. We were but mildly on our guard, sure we had eluded our enemies. I for one was entranced by the countryside. Oh, to be rich and travel without care! I'm afraid I pestered Aouda with questions. She seemed to know all the answers, but was uninterested in discussion of her homeland. She even bristled when I used that term. "England is my home," she told me coldly, and there was no more conversation with her that day.  
  
As I say, it was pleasant while it lasted, but it did not last. Neither did the rails. Soon we found ourselves aboard an elephant - yes! An elephant! - the details of the procurement of which must be left for another time. Passepartout alone among us had some small familiarity with the beasts from his circus days and was therefor calm in the face of our new fortunes. The rest of us simply bore it as best we could.  
  
And then we came upon the suttee. Had I known a human being was about to willingly throw herself into fire - but I get ahead of myself.  
  
I knew nothing of the rite then. But Fogg and Aouda did, and their eyes burned with a cold fire that was chilling. Separately, without telling the rest of us, they began to plot to save the woman we saw being led to her death. We simply woke in the morning to find them gone. Rebecca naturally attempted to follow them, but before she was far off, they met her on their return. It was near a week before I got even the barest hints of what happened that day, but I can tell you that the sight of Phileas Fogg in defeat is almost soul-shattering. As for Aouda, she spoke not but cried much for days.  
  
Apparently, each had set off without the other's knowledge, nor ours, each believing that stealth would win out over strength in this case. Finding themselves at the same project, they joined forces, but still, the prize was not won. They had not rescued the woman they went to save, because she had not wished to be rescued. The woman had truly loved her dead husband and considered it an honor to die with him. It was only by the slimmest margin that they managed to escape themselves. The incident has affected us all, but Aouda most. Once she would talk again, she continuously relived her words with the doomed woman.  
  
There was naught else to do after that but continue on our course.  
  
We arrived at Calcutta two days later, with the full intention of boarding a steamer to take us back to Suez. There would be a wait of two days, so we settled into lodgings and purchased new clothing. On the morn, our party set out to tour the city, finding our first leisure time to do so. I should say all but Fogg, who declined to join the remainder of us. To my surprise, Aouda did choose to join us, though she was still silent and red-eyed.  
  
Perhaps we were too bold. Two Frenchmen and an English lady, in the company of an Indian maiden dressed in English style, must surely be noticed. Our enemies certainly ascertained our whereabouts quickly. They must have taken the next train and, more familiar with the state of the rails, obtained speedier transportation across the trackless divide. All that is known for sure is that when we entered the square adjacent our lodgings, a cry went up and the entire city descended upon us, or so it seemed.  
  
My companions fought well. Rebecca cried to me to inform Fogg, and I obeyed, though I heard shots that seemed to issue from our rooms. Rushing back there, I found him at the window, covering our companion's retreat. Quickly taking up our few packages, and the all important carpetbag, we quit the room and headed for our only safety - the harbour. Commandeering a small boat, we headed for the three steamers at anchor. One, the west-bound Balboa, was known to be our intended conveyance by various merchants ashore, so Fogg directed us to another. Thus he attempted, and as it turned out succeeded, in sending our enemies scuttling back west, whilst we continued on our accidental global circumnavigation.  
  
After that there is not much to tell. Singapore, Hong Kong, Yokohama, we passed through them like skipping stones on a smooth pond. We could not enjoy them for haste and fear of continued pursuit. Had I known we had eluded them, what wonders I might have seen! Alas, I perceived only the distant shores and occasional marketplace. Soon we were on our way to America, and that familiar place held the vaguest scent of home.  
  
Those twenty-two days across the Pacific afforded us much leisure time. Passepartout and I spent it going over our adventures, I scribbling notes on whatever I could find, he acting out actual and imagined scenes to the delight of all - but Fogg, of course. Aouda awoke from her daze and participated as we compared notes on all the places we had passed through or near. Fogg formed a foursome for whist, and when he disappeared to the salon, I am somewhat ashamed to admit, the rest of us discussed him at length. Aouda seemed particularly interested in him, his history, what might lie beneath that façade he wears. Rebecca, Passepartout and I spoke as favorably as we could, and sometimes most humorously on Rebecca's part.  
  
Reaching San Francisco on December 5, we again utilized a rail system, and said system we were relieved to find lived up to its billing. A steamer across the Atlantic, and we are finally here, on Christmas Eve.  
  
I hear carolers outside as I write. It is getting late. The Foggs have invited me to stay through New Year's Day, as La Sorbonne is on break. Oh, school! I've missed so many classes, my father may kill me! I hear Rebecca calling; it must be time to open presents. Glad I picked up a few trinkets on our travels.  
  
  
December 25, 1863  
  
"Fogg, you are an idiot." He has said it to Passepartout so many times, I wish I dared to say it to him now, when he most richly deserves it. But I dare not. Nothing and no one can save him from his folly now.  
  
While I had been ensconced in my room writing furiously, Fogg went to his club, and Rebecca and Aouda made their reports to Chatsworth. While I doubt he mustered a "well done" for them, the ladies seem well pleased with themselves, and that, after all, is most important.  
  
We had a merry time opening presents 'round the tree last night. The English traditions are strange, but enjoyable. The "crackers" I think they were called were interesting at dinner and the wassail delicious. Passepartout served a small réveillon at midnight. We were all so giddy with happiness at our return, unscathed.   
  
I retired late, and tried to sleep, but I had the familiar urge to sketch one of the many images still haunting my mind from our trip. Having blown out my candle, I went downstairs to light it. Passing the study, I heard voices.  
  
"...returning to India, Miss Parihar?" Fogg's voice.  
  
"That is one of my options, yes." Aouda. I stopped, leaned closer to the door.  
  
"How can you even consider going back to that...uncivilized backwater."  
  
"I was born there, it is a part of me. And just because a culture is different from yours does not mean it is uncivilized."  
  
"Different? My lady, we both watched that wretched woman throw herself uselessly onto a pyre. You called the display many things, but not 'different.'"  
  
"I did not understand, then."  
  
"And you do now?!"  
  
"Yes. That woman did what she did out of loyalty, dedication. And love."  
  
"Bah!"  
  
"But you wouldn't understand about that, would you?"  
  
Before I could move, the door burst open, and Aouda stared at me with wide eyes for a moment before she rushed off down the hall. I prudently snuck off in the other direction. From the study, I heard the distinct clink of crystal.  
  
I'd best get a few hours sleep before Christmas morn.  
  
  
December 25, 1863, addendum  
  
Aouda is gone.  
  
I slept late, and awoke to find that she had not come down. Rebecca eventually went to check on her and found her room empty, her personal things gone. She left all the clothes paid for with Fogg's money. There was much discussion, but I did not reveal what I heard last night.  
  
It has occurred to me that our global circumnavigation might make for a publishable story. It will need work, though, perhaps a little humor. Passepartout joked that he was certainly glad he remembered to turn off the gas. What if he hadn't? And no one could be satisfied with the ending, true or not. I shall take it upon myself to give Fogg some happiness, however fictional. And if not in life, perhaps that poor woman in India might be saved on paper, against her will or no. Rebecca and her mission should probably be omitted for reasons of international security. We accomplished the circuit in 83 days. I wonder how many we might have shaved off had we known from the beginning our goal? Who knows but it may take years to fill in the gaps and alter the narrative sufficiently. Immortality for two of my dearest friends could be the fortuitous byproduct.  
  
Merry Christmas.  
  
  



End file.
